


y si subo, subirás conmigo

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 11:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10489524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: “Dani?”He turns back, meets whatever he has to say head-on.“Are you happy?”The furrow between his brow blinks into existence. New sweaters make him happy, lemonade and soft grass and sunshine spilling sumptuously over the scene makes him happy. Nacho makes him…





	

**Author's Note:**

> for the word prompt:
> 
> “Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
> These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
> Tell me we’ll never get used to it. “ -Richard Siken

Dani curls his fingers around the shot glass, brings it to his mouth and throws it back in a single breath. His head hangs back for another moment, eyes closing of their own volition. He thinks that’s four, or five. He’s not sure of much else, feels everything in softly blurred flashes.

The hand on his thigh follows the same familiar path, starts at the knees and strokes up to mid-thigh. Falters, like it’s unsure of what comes next, what might be, before smoothing back down. Thumb and pinky squeezing together, around the curve of bone, confirming their presence.

With his eyes closed, this victory feels like every other, the long line of them neatly stacked together like toy cars. In the morning, it will come to him, the joy, the mistakes he made, the goals and assists, in that order. But now, there is the crack of Sergio’s surprised laughter and the warmth of a body to lean back against.

A puff of exhale against his ear makes his eyes blink open again.

“Two truths, and a lie?” Marcelo offers from the other end of their section. James grins immediately, fingertips pressing into the back of his scalp. Marcelo’s head tilts into the touch as he glances at Cristiano.

“Truth or dare!” Isco demands, mouth crooking up with mischief. In perfect complement, Alvaro’s mouth turns down.

“You keep asking for trouble, you’re going to get it eventually,” Sergio chides, but he’s grinning when his tongue licks at his bottom lip. Dani shrugs when Isco looks at him for support, willing to do whatever it takes to stay exactly where he is.

A polite cough sounds from Toni, mid-step away from the group, but Lucas flicks his ear, drags him back down.

“Since he just volunteered, Toni can go first!” Isco announces delightedly, hands clapping together. “Truth or dare?”

“Ehh, I need water, I think,” the German manages, eyes darting for the quickest exit.

Lucas tugs on his shirt, drags him back, swings the arm immediately around his shoulder.

“Water later, answer now.” He looks like he’s going to refuse, but Lucas tugs on his earlobe. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to match the challenging glint to his gaze.

“Uhh, truth then.”

“Booooring,” Sergio taunts from behind them. Toni doesn’t even bother looking back when he flicks him off.

“Toni, if you had to kiss someone here, who would it be?” Isco starts, and Toni’s mouth opens, ready to reply, before the small Spaniard holds up a hand. “Besides Lucas, of course.”

Dani’s glad to be sitting far enough away from the sharp glance Lucas throws Isco’s way. He doesn’t seem to be moved by it though, neck arching into the touch of Alvaro’s fingers on his skin.

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes moving from person to person, lips pursed like he’s thinking. Lucas seems to wilt beside him, arm beginning to droop off his shoulder before Toni reaches up, catches it by the wrist. Turns to meet his eyes for a second, like he doesn’t even see anyone else.

“Would it really matter?” a voice pipes in, and everyone turns to Gareth, leaning back comfortably, legs splayed wide. “Everyone’s kissed everyone, so if you kiss one, you kiss all.”

“That’s not an ans--” Isco begins to complain, but Sergio lobs a bomboloni at his head.

“It’s Toni’s turn, kid.”

“James.”

The Colombian’s head swivels from where he was staring at Marcelo to stare at Toni.

“Dare!”

Marcelo chuckles softly at his enthusiasm, taps his temple lightly against his.

“I dare you…” Toni starts, then looks around, like he hadn’t really expected a dare.

“Make him kiss the bartender!” Isco pipes.

“Nobody has to kiss anybody!” Lucas interrupts immediately. But not before Cristiano and Marcelo turn in unison to glare at the bartender, just in case he starts to get any ideas.

“I’ll do it,” James pipes up helpfully, and the force of their simultaneous glares is turned on him instead. Cristiano looks on the verge of saying something, but Toni decides finally.

“I dare you to dance for us right now.” He says it quickly, not making eye contact with anyone.

James’ smile grows wide, then smug in beats.

His hand falls away from Marcelo’s soft curls before he bounds to the dj. The background music goes silent, overtaking everyone gathered in the section before bright pop bounces from the speakers.

 _Roof was fallin', let me, love me, fallin', I just know._  
_Roof was fallin', let me, love me, fallin', I just know_

James is nearly beaming when he shimmies his way back to the group, swaying as he slides in. Everyone gets a little acknowledgement, a bump to Gareth’s knee, a playful swat at Lucas’ shoulder, a raised eyebrow for Cristiano. But it’s clear he’s got a destination in mind, focused and determined until he falls into place before Marcelo, rests a hand on his shoulder before slowly, carefully winding his hips to the rhythm of the beat.

Dani’s suddenly glad for the low light, although if he could be bothered to look at anyone else, he’s pretty sure they’d also all be singularly focused on James.

At least, he is until the hand on his thigh skims higher, pinky nearly pressing into the crease of his jeans.

_And if you love me, love me, but you never let me go_

The sound of clothes rustling, the protesting squeak of leather as his teammates squirm in their seats, but Dani only registers: James’ eyes locked solely on Marcelo, as though none of them exist, and the hand on his thigh squeezing when it reaches the top. Marcelo bites his lips, reaching up to rest both hands on his hips as James rolls them teasingly. The fabric of his shirt is stretched to the limits as he arches forward.

_Say you're sorry, honey, but you never really show_

There’s a sharp inhale of breath, but Dani’s not sure who it comes from. Maybe himself, he considers, reaching forward for another shot.

_And I could leave the party without ever letting you know, without ever letting you know._

Marcelo pulls him forward slightly, nearly unbalancing James until both the Colombian’s hands rest on his shoulders, one skimming up to return to his hair. He’s on the other side of the group, but Dani feels his own cheeks heat up at the unabashed invitation of the movement. Imagines being so free and open with his own wants.

Marcelo leans in ever closer, mouth just a hair’s breadth away from the thin fabric of James’ shirt. Dani wonders if it’s the last shot or the way he’s nearly holding his breath from the teasing edge of fingernails on his thigh. Either way, he’s lighthead, mind spinning in time with James’ movements.

“Time’s up,” Cristiano announces, clearing his throat primly. “Your turn, James.”

Marcelo blinks a few times before he can turn to Cristiano, one side of his lips curving up, full of knowing. The corners of Cristiano’s lips quirk before he purses them together, as he always does when he’s trying not to pout. Dani’s glad for the distance now as he lets out a shaky exhale, tries to remember how to breathe again when the hand falls away.

“Hmm,” James hums, plopping back down into the empty space beside Marcelo, hooking his ankle around Marcleo’s shamelessly. “Alvaro, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” he replies firmly. Isco’s lolling head on his shoulder tips back to look up at him.

Dani’s hand falls off his lap, strokes over the soft leather of the booth. His pinky brushes Nacho’s, hooks over his as the burn of the fifth...or sixth shot spreads through him. He stretches his legs out under the table, body warm and loose, the contentment of muscles fulfilling their purpose.

Moments like this, the promise of it settling low and sweet inside of him, his brain whirls with possibilities for the future. More celebrations just for them, more of the way Toni lets himself be smothered by Lucas or Marcelo and James can’t disconnect for two minutes. More of Isco turning his face into Alvaro’s throat. Each of them like scattered fragments that form the whole of his triumph.

“What did you miss most when you were in Torino?”

Dani can see Alvaro’s adam’s apple bob as he swallows, trying to compose his answer.

Nacho’s knee knocks against his own, and Dani peeks at him out of the corner of his eye, curious. But he doesn’t say anything, simply turns his hand around until their palms are pressing together. The space between their thighs just enough to hide their intertwined fingers. 

Dani’s not sure if he’s imagining the prolonged silence, but it builds like wisps of rain cloud merging together.

“Me, obviously!” Sergio interrupts, mercifully.

“Me,” Lucas retorts.

“Churros,” Dani pipes up.

“Us,” Nacho adds, voice pitched low.

Dani’s skull feels heavier than before, so he doesn’t bother stopping it as it falls by the wayside, lands on Nacho’s shoulder.

“Doesn’t look like he missed much food,” Sergio teases, reaching over entire bodies to smack lightly at Alvaro’s belly. He gets a swat for his troubles.

“I didn’t miss any of you nightmares!” Alvaro proclaims, “Everyone was nice to me at Juventus.”

From this angle, eyes heavy lidded, he wonders for a moment if he imagined the minute flinch of Isco’s body at the answer. Alvaro doesn’t seem to notice though, sips on his bright blue atrocity of a drink.

“Well, too bad you’re stuck with us for the time being,” Pepe comments.

“Says who?” Fabio wants to know.

“Says his soon-to-be wife, you idiot,” Pepe retorts.

“She followed him here, didn’t she? She’ll just go with him.”

“How about you both leave, and Alvaro can stay since he has manners?” Cristiano bites out warningly.

Dani’s staring at the neon lights dancing across the gaudy lounge wallpaper when Nacho’s hand clenches reflexively. His mind tries to catch up, but his body’s tensed immediately. He follows Nacho’s gaze across the space, the reluctant but forceful way Isco extricates himself from Alvaro. The arm around his chest, the head against his shoulder, the thigh pressed close all splitting away. A thin, but irrevocable, line painfully carved between the points of their bodies.

Dani tries to think of something to say, a way to drag the carpet over the wreckage. The earlier contentment fracturing beneath the sucker punch to the gut.

“I hate to pull the captain card,” Sergio interjects, taking pity on them again. “But it seems I have to do everything around here so.” He lets out a long-suffering gust before pointing to Cristiano.

“It’s karaoke time, rock star,” he declares to a chorus of good-natured groans.

On the way out, Cristiano grabs James’ hand, the Colombian releasing a surprised squeak. But he doesn’t resist, lets himself be dragged along and tugs Marcelo forward with him. He grunts in protest, but follows the two of them anyway.

Dani watches them slink away, the easy, free way they fall into one another.

Finds himself drawn back to Isco shoving himself off the lounge with both hands, unsteady on his feet but mouth set. He’s seen the warning signs enough times to know what comes next, slides forward to the very edge.

His hand hasn’t gotten the message, still linked to Nacho’s. But Nacho has. The comforting pressure of his grasp releases, Dani stifling a protest.

“I gotta,” he starts, but knows he won’t need to finish. It’s Nacho, and Nacho always knows.

“Go. I got Alvaro,” he promises, hesitates before circling Dani’s wrist. He glances up wonderingly. Nacho’s watching him the way he does sometimes when Dani’s drunk and Nacho’s tipsy off the fumes to let himself look. Squeezes until the tip of his middle finger touches his thumb.

It’s a little too tight but the promise of it reassures him. Dani still feels the faint echo of it long after he finds Isco. He seems hellbent on fucking things up, but thankfully hasn’t decided how just yet, hovering between the dance floor and the bar.

Dani tugs him back by his shirt, bands his arms around his chest and knocks their heads together.

“What’s the plan, tio?”

“I’m not drunk enough to come up with a great plan yet,” he mutters, words half-muffled by the force of his pout. He seems to realize the solution to this quickly enough, jerking forward mid-thought. Dani stumbles, but sticks close, tries to catch the eye of the bartender before Isco does.

“Shots!” Isco demands, chest plastered along the bar top as he leans in.

“You gotta get about five feet back before I give you anything more,” the bartender tells him, filling a glass with Mahou on tap.

“Shot!” He whines, nearly sliding back down off the hardwood.

The bartender finally does notice Isco’s unnaturally bright eyes, the rocking motion as he sways between Dani and the bar. Instead of shots, he puts down two short glasses, something disgustingly pink but Isco’s grabbing for it eagerly before Dani can stop it. It tastes exactly as ridiculous as it looks, sickly sweet but thankfully not strong.

Isco’s trying to signal for another when Dani hauls him back.

“Isco, hey Isco, let’s go make fun of Cristiano,” Dani offers, knows mocking people usually cheers him up immediately. But Isco’s shaking his head, letting it loll back against Dani’s shoulder.

“I don’t...I’m still.”

He smacks a hand harder than he means against his sternum. Right over his heart, Dani registers two beats later. It aches inside of his own chest, an inherited phantom pang, as Isco rubs his heel over the spot. Seeing him glance around helplessly around the bar, figure out how many drinks it might take to dull the pain.

“Okay. Okay, we don’t have to.” Dani reaches up, strokes a hand slowly over his hair, meets the bartender’s curious look in their direction. Wonders if he should try to explain this isn’t...that, but can’t bring himself to care. He wouldn’t be the first.

“More shots!” he orders, but the bartender shakes his head at him.

“I’m not cleaning up your vomit in 20 minutes. You can have a water, or a beer.”

For someone as drunk as he is, Isco’s surprisingly quick as he wriggles out from under Dani’s arm, leaning over the bar again.

“What if I make it worth your while?”

Dani’s pretty sure Isco thinks he’s whispering, but he’s mostly just shouting conspiratorially. He’s stepping forward, but Alvaro slips between them first, sidles up to Isco. He hovers, like he’s not sure he’s allowed, before leaning close, an arm around his waist.

Isco starts, like he’s been hit, like he can smell Alvaro even before he registers the sight of him. He jerks away from the touch. The instant wash of unexpected hurt over Alvaro’s features is no less painful for its familiarity.

“Don’t,” Isco orders, swaying back two steps. Breath exhaling in unsteady huffs, chest rising and falling erratically as he tries to keep himself together. Dani swallows past the discomfort, the shard of sympathy lodged in his throat. He’s seen every twist and turn of Alvaro’s face over the course of the years between them, knows them all. But the helplessness is new, the tortured shape of guilt. There’s a hollow sob gathering somewhere behind his spine when Sergio rescues them from themselves.

“Hate to be a mom, but I think it’s bedtime for the children.” His voice is cheerful, even if his brown eyes are sharp, aware.

“That’s a great idea!” the bartender pipes up, shoving a bottle instantly into Sergio’s hand. Even from a distance, Dani can see the glossy sheen to Alvaro’s eyes, his knuckles flexing as he clutches at the bar. Trying to figure out where the parameters are now.

Sergio glances sharply at Dani, who stares back at him, all wide eyes and projections of innocence.

“You too, beardy.”

Now that his body has a purpose, Isco seems to crumple beneath it, lets his arms be slipped into his coat. When Sergio twists open the water and hands it to him, he puts it to his mouth obediently. The thick layers of insulation dwarf him, make him look even more vulnerably small than usual. Dani moves until he can hear the long pulls he takes from the bottle, finishes it off when Isco hands it to him. He looks everywhere except right in front of him, Alvaro frozen to the spot, like a wounded animal realizing it’s trapped. Despair makes Dani feel skittish, head spinning to find a way out for him.

“Hey,” a voice interjects.

“Hey,” he replies. It’s near instantaneous, the way his whirling thoughts slow down at the single sound. His head turns instinctively towards it. The crease on his forehead means Nacho is trying to resist the urge to take over. Dani’s hand flexes uselessly by his side as it resists the urge to reach up, brush the tips of his fingers over them.

Nacho looks over him first, and Dani wants to reassure him, _I’m fine, don’t worry,_ but he seems to read it in the silence.

“Alvaro?” he asks, falling into step beside him. Alvaro’s reply is a quiet sniffle, face illuminated by the light behind the bar in profile. He turns away fully and Dani feels Isco’s hand touching the crook of his elbow, shuffling closer. Nacho’s about half a head shorter, but he steps in, curves around his shoulder and whispers quietly to him.

Alvaro nods, then hazards a look in their direction.

“I’m gonna…” He shrugs a shoulder towards their section and skulks off, hangdog face and hunched shoulders. All that time in the gym, and still sometimes, Dani just looks at him and sees the kid he first met: lanky limbs and overgrown ears. More feelings than sense. Something about the way he holds his body makes him seem smaller, look as fragile as he feels.

Dani hands Isco another water bottle, then moves to stand beside Nacho at the bar. The scent of his cologne, always crisp and clean like fresh snow, greets him first, overpowers the rest.

“I’m gonna take Alvaro home,” Nacho confirms, an elbow on the bar as he still watches after him. Alvaro’s searching through a pile for his own coat, picking up one at a time and then stopping, like he’s remembering something, and then going back to his task. Dani turns his body into Nacho’s, the edge of his knuckles brushing against his side.

“Okay,” Dani says quietly. It would be so easy to slip closer, two steps at most, and press into the inviting warmth of his chest. Even in the middle of winter, somehow Nacho always throws off heat. But Alvaro finds his coat and then stares at it for a second, hesitant to return to the bar, and Dani knows he cannot make himself be selfish.

“Do you still want,” Nacho begins, trails off. He’s looking up at Dani from under his lashes, but his dark eyes seem unsure, on the verge of asking. Dani nods his head, steps closer until Nacho’s hand opens, folds around his side.

“Come over. After.”

It unsettles him, hollows out the tender core, the thought that a night like this might end some other way. Victory always filters through in stages, in the laughter bubbling up in the tunnel, in the shared delight in darkly lit corners of bars, in the quiet ride home, hands linked over the console. A single missed stitch undoes the fabric.

“Whenever,” Dani whisper, head stuffed with cotton and tumbling forward until his nose bumps into the side of Nacho’s cheek. “Just come.”

He feels the pressure against his side as Nacho squeezes his fingers, mimicking the hand around the wrist earlier. Feels the way he nods, the low exhale of relief. The tension leaches out of Dani’s own body in waves.

“I’ll come.”

~

Isco’s quiet the whole ride to his place, knees pulled up to his chest, head resting against the window. Flamenco floats above the stifling silence, the singer’s voice lifting high despite the weight of his sorrows.

“You good, barbudo?” Sergio asks casually, turning left even though the signal tells him otherwise. The streets are nearly empty, a handful of lights glinting off buildings, the last of the security guards closing down for the night. The breeze sweeps in through the open window like a visitor, a lazy caress along his jawline, before slipping away.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. It was a good game.”

Sergio makes a half-grunt of amusement, looks at him with equal parts exasperation and fondness.

“I meant are _you_ good.” The question underscored by a firm, but not hard, jab to Dani’s chest.

Dani doesn’t reply for a beat, watches the brightness from the dashboard scatter along the ridges of his face. The insistent night highlights the shadows under his eyes, the stubborn lines around his mouth. Here, in the darkness with only Dani looking his way, he doesn’t make the effort to project cheer. Here, in the darkness, the past years collect in the lingering crinkles around his eyes, in the permanent frown lines near his brow. Some creatures are not meant to be solitary.

“Are you good?” Dani wonders in a small voice and it’s up again, the easy grin, the forced relax line of his shoulders.

“Never better, kid.”

The elephant in the room blows his trunk in dissent.

He imagines it, stadium lights beaming down, the particular weight of a skin-warmed trophy in his hands lifted triumphantly into the air. The moment when it cracks through him, when the miles his feet have traveled have fallen away, the swirl of elation and victory coalescing into something more: Nacho’s eyes on him from a matter of feet away. Only when he’s looking at him does it feel exactly, perfectly right.

Imagines that stripped from him in a split second.

He can’t make himself look at Sergio again before they reach Isco’s place. He’s been still and silent since they got in, and Dani half wonders if he’s fallen asleep, but he climbs out of the car just fine.

“I got this,” he announces to Sergio, head sticking through the window. Isco’s shoving his hand into various pockets, fruitlessly searching for his keys.

Sergio nods, reaching into his pocket for his phone. Stares at the screen before purposefully unlocking it.

Isco’s still rummaging through pockets when Dani gets there, deeply disgruntled by their refusal to cooperate.

“I got it, come on.”

“We can’t be loud!” He exclaims on the top step while Dani moves the heavy planter far enough to find the spare key.

“Whatever you say, Isco.”

“We’ll wake up Messi!” The thought seems to upset him deeply, forehead pressing exhaustedly against the door as Dani undoes the lock. Within seconds, Messi is on them, barking delightly in welcome.

“We woke him up!” Isco opines and Dani has to catch him with an arm around the waist when Messi threatens to knock him over completely.

“It’s okay, he just wanted to sleep with you.”

It seems to appease him, before his face gets scrunchy again.

“He’s such a good boy!”

Dani nods sagely in agreement. He manages to get them all upstairs and into Isco’s room without any major injuries, which is quite the feat. Isco takes one long look at the bed and falls forward with a muffled silk splatter.

“You gotta take off your jeans, buddy.”

“Dun wanna,” is the muffled answer Dani gets.

“Take off your pants or I’m gonna make you drink the orange gatorade.”

Isco manages to flick him off with one hand while the other reaches towards the snap. He leaves him to it.

Messi pads after him into the kitchen, the fridge chirping annoyingly when he opens it in greeting. He grabs the blue gatorade for Isco. He doesn’t have enough energy to undress himself, but if Dani brings the wrong color, somehow, he’ll find the energy to whine for ages. He grabs a red for himself.

Isco’s starfished across the center of the bed, jeans dangling off an ankle.

“I tried but it wouldn’t…” he complains, gesturing expansively. Dani leaves the gatorade and pain medicine from inside his side table on top, sinks down onto the covers before sliding his ankle out of it. The t-shirt will probably be fine, if wrinkled, in the morning. He wishes the same could be said of Isco, who's latched onto a pillow, face shoved deep into it. Slowly, jostling him as little as possible, he manages to gets the covers out from under and halfway over Isco.

He always looks the smallest here, alone in bed and just a little sadder than he’ll let himself be otherwise. Dani skims a hand over the top of his head, down around his ear, before patting his shoulder. His eyes stay closed, but Isco’s hand flashes in air and grasps at his wrist. They snap open, unblinking and steadier than he should be. Considering his options. Dani should move, should look away with a laugh, but.

Isco’s thumb skims the curl of bone. He’s holding onto it as a child might, like they’re just trying to understand what they can make it do. His head lifts off the pillow, slow, each movement weighed down by exhaustion. Dani can feel his warm breath against the back of his arm, then higher, almost near his neck. He gets to his jawline, then stops, stumbling on the edge.

“Go to sleep, Isco.” Barely a whisper, but he’s close enough to hear it. His forehead falls against Dani’s shoulder, exhale shaky, and Dani uses his free hand to skim down his back. It takes him a moment but he goes, pliant as Dani arranges the comforter over him.

“Do you ever…” he tries, voice wobbly as he swallows. Grasping for anything to fill the absence. Dani wants to explain that not all bodies are the same, that his won’t fit into the emptiness shaped by someone else. Instead he brushes a hand over his hair, feels his whole heart squeeze with softness for him. Leans close to kiss his forehead, watches as Isco dutifully keeps his eyes closed.

“Sleep, Isco. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promises with a kiss to each cheek.

Messi jumps onto the bed the second Dani makes room, settles right in against his belly. His fingers slide into his thick fur, holding on for some semblance of comfort. Dani switches the lights off, stands at the door longer than necessary. Hand on the knob, a quick prayer on his tongue before he realizes it. The faint click of the door behind him, followed by a ragged exhale. It’s not the first time, and it’s likely not the last, but it costs Dani something each time to not give something he could. Knows the memory of Isco’s face, wide-eyed and guileless, on the verge of begging, will stay with him.

Sergio’s spinning the phone in his hands, head back against the rest and humming along to the song.

_Me siento dichoso,_  
_ojalá nunca te fueras._

“Where am I taking you?” He drops the phone back into the coffee holder, tilts his head in question.

“Home.”

“Sure?”

Dani nods, folds his hands neatly on his lap. Watches the street lights dance over the webbing of veins along his knuckles. Tries not to think how much easier it would’ve been if it were Isco.

“You’re too quiet.”

Sergio shoves at his shoulder, jostles him out of his thoughts.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me a bedtime story, dad,” he taunts, but the barb barely lands. Instead, Sergio brightens beneath it, starts on some story involving teaching Sergio Junior knocking him over onto an open bag of flour. His mind wanders as Sergio tells him the details.

It would’ve been easier if it had ever been a question. He let himself look, but never at teammates. The barriers were resolute, unmovable between the segments of his life.

But one day, Nacho had looked at him, and even now, Dani can remember it exactly. The low-hanging moon and the sweet night breeze, the heat of June abating in the darkness. Nacho’s face bare, eyes naked and inviting in a way he’d never seen it before. The victory skittering along his ribs, along the line of his arms. Something hot and heavy pooling low in his belly as Nacho had reached forward, a hand around the nape of his neck. Mouth softer than the wind as it brushed over Dani’s, but fingertips sinking into skin, leaving their prints on him.

Sometimes, when their limbs are tangled and their racing pulses find their way together to synchronicity, he feels it again. The inevitability of it. The rightness.

“...and then I shipped Marco off to China with a tiger.” Sergio finishes in a monotone.

“What?” Dani interjects, head catching up to his ears.

“You’re a terrible son,” he accuses, turning onto Dani’s street. “You don’t even listen to your papa’s stories. Even Marco listens.”

“I’m just…” He gestures at his temple, then towards the sky.

Sergio smiles at him, crooked and a little wistful.

“I know. Sure you want…” He trails off as he recognizes the black Audi in the driveway.

“Thanks. For the ride,” Dani adds. He’s not sure if he should say something, joke it away, but they’ve never lied about, not to their captains. He hovers with a hand on the handle, feels some strange parental guilt.

“Dani?”

He turns back, meets whatever he has to say head-on.

“Are you happy?”

The furrow between his brow blinks into existence. New sweaters make him happy, lemonade and soft grass and sunshine spilling sumptuously over the scene makes him happy. Nacho makes him…

He’s never wondered if happiness was the point of it all. Thinks of Isco falling asleep, closed eyelids holding onto his tears, thinks of the hunch of Alvaro’s shoulders over the bar. Did they make each other happy?

Thinks of Nacho inside his door. Thinks of Nacho in another country, miles away from where he can touch. Feels something desperate and shivery tremble inside his belly at the mere thought of it.

Dani leans in instead, kisses his bearded cheek softly.

“You’re a good dad.”

His smile is laden with affection as Dani slips out.

The entryway is dark, Nacho’s oxfords neatly arranged to the side. Beside them are three pairs of his sneakers, some shiny dress shoes, and a pair of hideous summer sandals Dani keeps meaning to sneak into the trash. He longer remembers when they began accumulating here, can barely remember a time before them.

He slips out of his shoes, socked feet light on the hardwood floor. The lights are dimmed, Nacho’s curled spine awash in its warm glow. His brow smooth and relaxed, mouth half-open in sleep.

 _Are you happy?_ Sergio had asked.

It slams into him, shoves the breath from his lungs and sends his pulse leaping into his throat. The way Nacho’s hands are clasped beneath his chin, his body at ease here. Dani’s walls and Dani’s floors, Dani’s house breathing around the form of Nacho’s presence.

 _I’m home_ , he thinks. _I’m alive._

He kneels before him, a hand on his knee and the other reaching up for his face, touch feather light. Nacho turns into it, seeking him out even in sleep, and everything inside Dani goes molten.

“You’re here,” Nacho mumbles into his palm, eyes still closed. Bearded cheek against the open, inviting curve of his hand.

“Sorry it took so long.” He drops his chin onto his thigh, watching his throat work as he swallows.

“I would’ve waited,” Nacho promises, eyes blinking the sleep away in stages. When he glances down at Dani, they’re still a little dreamy, cloud-soft. His hand comes up to stroke over Dani’s short, dark hair, just as he’d done to Isco earlier. But his touch lingers, skims a thumb over the curl of his ear, knuckling lazily down the side of his throat.

“Upstairs,” Dani manages, head instinctively tilting back to expose his throat. No matter how many times he touches him, Dani always feels like he’s on the verge of begging for more. Arching his neck to press closer into his fingers.

His knees crack when he finally straightens, the heat of Nacho’s hand tangible through the thin fabric of his button up. A single bedside lamp throws its light along his face. Dani sinks down onto the edge, palm along the cool comforter as he gazes up at Nacho.

It’s absurd, he thinks vaguely to himself, that he sees him every day, in every place, in every state of dress. But when he gets him like this, body loose and at ease, his mouth goes dry. His hands forget they ever had any other purpose, besides touching him. It’s only a handful of steps, but Dani’s body’s tensed until Nacho’s in front of him. Only when he gets his shaky fingers on his belt does he finally begin to settle.

It clinks against the floor as Dani noses into his waistband, the sharp snick of the zipper tugged down. He drags the jeans and boxers down in one, and Nacho’s only half-hard underneath it. It staggers him still, that just looking at him can get Nacho to this point.

The hand skimming down his shorn hair reaches the base of his skull and tilts it back, still light, still a request. Dani blinks up at him, watched the shadows flicker across Nacho’s cheekbones. A thumb skims along his face to find his mouth, tugs Dani's full bottom lip down. He parts them immediately, feels the fine tremble start up at the base of his spine. Two fingers pressing down on his tongue and Dani closes his mouth around him, need rearing up. His own hand drags the tips of his nails along Nacho’s pale thighs.

When he makes a demanding noise, Dani echoes it, desperate for more as he releases the fingers with a pop. Nacho knuckles under his chin tip his head back the rest of the way, the pressure in it making Dani’s eyes flutter closed. He can hear their heavy breathing, the rustle of Nacho slipping off his own shirt.

“Open,” he commands, and Dani obeys, lips parting eagerly. His hands fall away from Nacho’s thighs when he slides into his mouth, the taste of him achingly familiar and yet, Dani arches forward, wanting more.

“Slow,” Nacho orders, and he whines low in the back of his throat. Only when Nacho’s fingers ghost along the vulnerable sides of his throat does he lean back. They slide up, scratching along his earlobe. He can feel himself getting hard in his jeans, but he doesn’t, can’t.

He slides deeper, the head dragging wetly along his tongue before nearly hitting his throat. A hand curling around his neck, Dani whimpering in frustration from the way Nacho holds back. He needs more. Needs it to smother him, overwhelming his senses and shutting off his brain. The way he can float away on the accompanying sweetness of it.

“I'm here,” Nacho promises, and Dani can feel the bones of his ribcage spread wide in relief. He starts a little when Nacho slips out of his mouth, chases after him blindly, eyes wild and blinking.

“I'm right here," Nacho reminds, before shoving at his shoulders. Dani’s pliant, body falling easily back against the covers, but blind, unseeing.

“Up,” he says and Dani shimmies until his whole body’s on the bed. “Good.” Nacho nods before straddling his thighs, fingers deftly undoing his shirt, spreading it open. The scratch of his beard against a nipple makes Dani arch beneath him, grab at his sides. Nacho releases a low sound of pleasure, licking down his shivering belly. It’s not enough, wants the weight of Nacho sinking into him. When his hands wraps around his dick, he cries out, bites on the inside of his wrist to muffle the noise.

“Hey. Hey, come on, Dani,” Nacho calls, hand stilling. Dani tries to make his lungs work as he looks up. “Don’t do that.”

He swallows hard, audible, before releasing the skin between his teeth. Nacho watches him, pupils blown but face unbearably soft. He lets his hands fall onto the comforter again.

“Good,” Nacho replies, before dragging his jeans and underwear off, shoving them onto the floor. He kneels there, hovering just over his ankles before dropping a soft kiss to his thighs. His warm palms smoothing up from his knee, spreading his legs as his mouth wanders along the crease. The edge of teeth makes Dani’s hips lift up off the bed, the glowing edge of brightness singing inside his chest. His mouth skims lower, sucking hard mouthfuls along the delicate skin inside his thigh. The promise of dark bruises forming there, visible even in the light of morning, makes Dani squirm against the sheets. His hands grip hard at the fabric and Nacho lifts his head, chin right on his thigh.

“Nacho,” Dani whispers, feeling the faint pinprick of emotion at the edge of his eyes. He wants. He doesn’t care what, doesn’t care how much. There is nothing of Nacho he doesn’t want, his throat closing against the tumult of such intensity.

“Dani,” Nacho breathes, dotting desperate kisses up his ribs before nuzzling into his jaw. Dani’s arms lift, slide around the wings of his back. He lets himself cling as Nacho rubs his beard along Dani’s, stops with his mouth just above his. No one who had ever seen Nacho from this close, this raw and open, would begrudge him the urge he feels to beg. But he doesn’t need to, because Nacho’s breathing is erratic against his mouth, hovers before rubbing just the tip of his nose against Dani’s.

The low wounded noise he makes is swallowed up by Nacho’s kiss, tongue sliding along his lips before slipping inside. His hands glide up the sweat-coated skin of Dani’s sides before seeking out his hands, linking their fingers together again.

He presses their interlaced hands into the bed, arches his hips and then grinds them forward into Dani’s. The groan echoes in their mouths, Dani’s eyes slamming shut as Nacho rocks harder into him, sliding between his thighs. Every part of his body alight, ablaze with the touch of Nacho’s. The heady feel of the rhythm he finds, the rough pressure that arches and bends his spine. The accidental brush of his nipples against Nacho’s. When he hooks an ankle around Nacho’s calf, it brings them even closer together, the angle making Nacho’s hips stutter for a second.

He’s trembling everywhere, one long aching line of desperation. His mind distant and hazy, thoughtless, only a body, only a demand for more. Nacho bites his bottom lip hard, tugs it into his mouth.

“Come on, Dani,” he mutters against his tongue, challenging and insistent. He drags his hipbone torturously slowly against his dick, slow and steady, before speeding up again. The squeeze of his fingers, the drag of his teeth along his bitten mouth, the caress of a nipple against bare skin.

“Come for me.”

He feels the words more than he hears them, but his addled brain registers them, scrambles to obey immediately. His body jerks with the force of it, doesn’t stop moving until Nacho cries out, his wrists bent nearly too far back.

“Fuck,” Dani manages, mostly a sharp exhale. Nacho lifts his head just enough to look down at him, hair tousled and stupid looking, mouth bright pink. Eyes sleepy and pleased.

The grin’s already visible in his eyes, amusement curving his mouth. It’s infectious, and when Dani laughs, a little foolish and a lot giddy, Nacho’s right there with him.

~

Even before he opens his eyes, Dani’s hand reaches out for him. The smoothness of his taut belly rippling awake beneath his fingers. Instead, he finds empty sheets, rumpled and cooling in the lazy light of morning. His back cracks when he arches his spine, a barely there soreness spreading over his body. The bruises from Nacho’s mouth still painting the inside of his thighs.

It takes two steps on the staircase before he smells coffee, a spiced sugariness in the background. Nacho’s hair is still wet, soft and unstyled as it only is on their days off. He glances up when Dani steps off the last one, eyes moving up from his ankle. Even before they meet Dani’s, the smile winds its way along his cheeks, spreads over his lips. The way he looks right now, expectant, welcoming, like he’s been waiting just for him. It tumbles through Dani, threatens to undoes him in its tenderness.

“Did you go home?” Dani wonders aloud, voice a little gruff.

Nacho shakes his head, carefully lifting picking something out of a bag and arranging it on a platter.

“Found it in your dresser. I can’t remember if I left it here or you stole it,” he informs him, only mildly accusatory.

Dani shrugs, hums noncommittally.

“Which one’s mine?” He points to the two coffee on the countertop, leans a hip against the edge of it. There’s no stifling the grin when he realizes they’re churros he’s stacking.

“You’re awfully sure of yourself there.” He puts the last churro on the plate and folds the bag into neat squares, sorts it into the recycling.

“I got you off last night, I deserve coffee,” Dani retorts, taking a sip of the one closest to his. It’s darkly bitter on his tongue, nearly burns a layer of skin off.

He whines in displeasure before drinking cautiously from the other one. It’s just right, milky sweet and not on the verge of singeing his taste buds off.

“How’s Alvaro?” Dani wonders before hopping onto the granite himself, stealing a churro while Nacho’s back is turned.

He shrugs, turns back to face him with a frown.

“Greedy,” he points, before biting off the end of the one in Dani’s hand.

“Me, or Alvaro?” Dani wonders before he finishes the rest off.

“Both,” Nacho allows, enables his bad behavior by holding another one up to Dani’s mouth.

“Why is he greedy?”

Nacho takes a slow sip of his coffee and Dani can almost feel the wheels turning in his head.

“He shouldn’t. I know he doesn’t mean to, but it’s not fair,” he tries, folds his hands around the cup. “It’s greedy to ask for what you can’t give back. It’s…”

Dani’s leg dangles off the edge and he nudges him with his calf.

“Go on.”

“It’s unkind to ask someone for more than you know they can give.”

It’s near instantaneous, like a spigot turning. The breath squeezed out of his lungs, the air sucked out of the air. A single word could catch alight here. He tries to remember how language functions, but there’s a second when he’s gaping like a hooked trout.

“He doesn’t mean to. He just can’t help it.” The ground shakes beneath his feet, cracks open around him. It’s too close, the ache clawing against his sternum.

“You can’t have everyone. No matter how big your heart is,” he tells the brim of his cup before downing another mouthful. A hand comes up to rest on Dani’s thigh and he seems to notice the tension in his muscle, the tautness to his body.

“Dani?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles too quickly, stuffs half a churro inside to occupy it briefly.

“Dani,” Nacho breathes, smoothing his palm up his thigh. “Hey, Dani, look at me.”

Dani gulps at his coffee to give himself a second, but eventually does, brushes invisible crumbs off his mouth.

“These are good churros,” he attempts. Tries to think of something to say so this will pass. They always pass, and in other moments, Dani can convince himself it’s balanced. But one glance at Nacho and his whole heart tips the scales against him.

“Dani.” It’s a request this time, gently made. He glances up, meets his eyes. Leaves his hands resting by his sides.

“Hmm?”

“They are good churros, but I wouldn’t follow them across the world.”

He says it like he’s reciting a fact, something obvious and normal. Something that doesn’t sweep Dani's feet out from under his knees. Nacho reaches out for his hand, kisses the half-bend of the fingers. His tongue flicks out against the sugar crystals still stubbornly clinging to his skin.

“I’d miss the churros,” he begins, and locks eyes with Dani before continuing, tongue still licking off the cinnamon. “But I could live without them.”

Says it like an inevitability.

Dani hauls him in by the collar of his sweater, kisses him until he can feel Nacho sigh into it. Until the sweetness of it unravels inside of his belly, sinks in low.

**Author's Note:**

> [chava iglesias voice] welcome to my canoe. it's teeny, but we have bananis...and avocadis...and fascinating undertones of power dynamics. this snuck up on me. i know i say that a lot, but i mean i literally had a dream and then proceeded to lose four hours of my life trying to make sense of my subconscious. turns out that bitch be knowin.
> 
> a huge thanks to the co-mods of this collection for creating this safe space where i could create my shitty pots.
> 
> pls come yell at me on tumblr, where i am literally always yelling and flouting the laws of capitalization.


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